Maid for the Hitman: A Steamy Standalone Instalove Romance Flora Ferrari (summer beach reads TXT) 📖

I need to speak with her.

CHAPTER FIVE

Rosie

“He should be here any minute,” I murmur, sitting at my mom’s bedside as she groans and moves her hands over her belly.

One thing that helps with mom’s illness is a warm shower, so of course, our hot water has decided to go bust after we got back from her last bout of chemotherapy.

Now it’s time to wait—and hope.

“You’re such a good girl,” Mom groans, her eyes closed as she sinks into the bed.

I smile and give her hand a squeeze.

“And you’re such a good mom,” I tell her.

She grunts out a twisted laugh. “I’m an old mom,” she says.

“You don’t look a day over ninety-five,” I joke, giggling in the hopes to make her laugh with me.

It works, and her laughter is like a warm glow of sun after a storm.

I sigh and sit back as she groans some more, waiting for the knock at the door. Our apartment is so small, I should be able to hear it.

But what if it’s not the superintendent? What if it’s one of Vito’s goons?

Ever since I had to drive mom to the hospital without a license, luckily not getting pulled over, I’ve been flinching at every sound, at every too-quick movement at the periphery of my vision.

I need to take Mom somewhere else, somewhere we’ll be safe.

But where?

I haven’t even got any gas left in the car. I’ve got no money. I’ve got no resources.

I feel stupid as I sit here, waiting for something dreadful to happen, but I don’t know what else to do.

Finally, it comes.

Knock-knock, two heavy pounding noises that reverberate through the whole apartment, like the knocker’s angry.

“See?” I tell mom. “Everything will be fixed soon.”

I walk through the apartment and into the kitchen, taking our sharpest kitchen knife and holding it behind my back. My hand trembles and fear lances through my body in a series of jagged stabbing sensations, trying to cripple me.

I have to be strong for Mom.

“Hello?” I say.

“Open the door,” somebody growls.

Ice freezes my heart and the knife clatters to the floor.

I curse and pick it up, clenching my fist tighter around the handle, telling myself I can use it even if I’m not sure I can.

“Who are you?” I whisper.

“I’m here to save your life,” he growls, his voice husky and firm.

There’s something about the voice – maybe I’m crazy – that stirs something deep inside of me, screaming at me to trust this man, this stranger, even if it’s the last thing I should do.

I’ve never felt like this before, as though I can judge him based on the rumbling gruffness of his voice alone, like a lion who’ll protect our pride no matter what happens.

What the heck am I thinking?

“Are you one of his men?” I say.

“Vito hired me to kill you,” the man snaps, “but I don’t kill women. But he has plenty of men who’d do this gladly. So open the damn door before it’s too late.”

“Do you know how stupid I’d be if I did that?”

The man laughs savagely. “Do you think this door’s made of steel, Rosie? I could kick it down any time I wanted.”

When he says my name, strange tingles dance all over my body, making my belly swirl with light and heat. I even feel my sex getting hot, my panties suddenly seeming rougher and my body more sensitive.

I don’t know this man.

Worse, he’s been sent here to kill me.

What the heck is wrong with me?

“How do I know I can trust you?” I murmur.

“Because I’d die before I let anything happen to you or your mother,” he snarls. “That’s how.”

That strange certainty rises within me again, that this man, this stranger is telling me the truth.

Somehow – impossibly – I feel my body scream at me that I can always trust this man, that I don’t have to doubt him.

Deep inside of me, something goes tight, screeching in a primal song that I should open the door and let him in.

“I don’t even know your name,” I murmur.

“My name is Ryland Radley,” he growls. “I’ve been hired by the Franzese crime family to take you out, Rosie. But I’m not going to do that. I’m going to save you and your mother. But I can’t do that unless you let me in.”

I glance across our small apartment to the open bedroom door, imagining this man – this Ryland – charging in here and sprinting into mom’s bedroom. My mind throws up horribly vivid vignettes of what he could do to us before he finally brought our lives to an end.

“I can’t,” I say. “Please, just go away.”

“Rosie,” he snarls. “If you send me away, they will send somebody else. And the next man won’t give a damn about kicking this door in and killing you. It won’t be a quick death, either. I can’t let that happen to you.”

“Why?” I snap, fierceness making my voice waver. “Why do you even care?”

There’s a long pause. I can hear his breathing through the door, a volcanic rumbling, like any second he’s going to explode and send the door hurtling against me.

“I don’t hurt women,” he says finally. “And I won’t stand by while somebody else does, either. I definitely won’t let them take you out when you’ve got a sick mother to care for. Open the door, Rosie.”

I bite my lip, nerves shivering through me.

Reason screams at me that this could so easily be a trick. He could have practiced this speech before he came over here, this Ryland Radley… If that’s even his real name.

And yet there’s another part of me, inexplicable and buried deep inside of me, that screams at me to accept this man.

I feel my womb throbbing inside of me, which should make me want to laugh. The thought is insane. And yet it simmers beneath the surface, rising up inside of me, boiling through me with the certainty of truth.

My womb aches and throbs and makes every inch of my skin